


careful

by ndnickerson



Category: Perry Mason - Erle Stanley Gardner
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Drunkenness, F/M, First Time, Missionary Position, Porn Battle, Power Dynamics, Requited Love, Safer Sex, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perry just has to make sure Della makes it safely back to her apartment. That's his story, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	careful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIV, prompts: lipstick, ice, satin, wrist.

Paul Drake stumbled back to his office an hour ago, still buzzing happily from the celebratory cocktails, and when Perry offers to walk Della up to her door, Della doesn't mind. Her apartment building is as safe as anywhere else in the city, but it's late and she's dizzy, flushed and happy, and spending a few more minutes with Perry won't hurt.

Except that it will. Except that her heart wants him and her head knows she can never have him, not the way she wants.

Perry offers her his arm and they walk together to her door, occasionally losing their footing on the worn-smooth carpet in the hall. It's the carpet's fault. Also her heels are too high. And she can't stop giggling, every time she meets his eyes, every time they almost fall all over each other. They'll be collapsed to the floor before they make it to her apartment, she knows.

And then she flushes at that thought, closing her mouth so quickly her teeth click together.

Finding her key takes entirely too long; her fingertips are numb, her stomach fluttering, her head tingling warm. Finally she fits the key into the lock and turns to Perry with a flourish, raising her eyebrows. She wants to tell him something. She...

She can't remember.

Perry, damn him, is a little more sober now—which is good, considering he drove them here and will be driving himself home in a few minutes. At least she was in the car to help him stay safe.

Well. Except that the lights were a blur and she kept finding his hand on her knee, his thumb stroking the silk of her stocking.

"Good night," she tells him, tipping her head forward. "Thank you—for the escort."

She is already looking forward to stripping out of her day dress, her girdle and garter belt and heels, into slippery satin, something cool against her flushed skin. The morning will be terrible, but the morning is hours away.

Perry nods at her door as she shoulders inside, her heel catching on the threshold, and she bursts into another round of giggles as he grasps her elbow to steady her. "And thank _you_ , Miss Street. Your assistance was invaluable. And saved a good man from the gallows."

Della drops her purse and the key on the table beside the door, toeing out of her heels, slipping her hand under the hem of her dress before she remembers that she shouldn't. He's her boss and while they've been in a few moderately inappropriate situations together, she's pretty sure that stripping to her slip in front of him would escalate things a bit.

"And I'm sure you are breathless with anticipation, ready for the next case," she tells him, turning to face him again, tripping over her words a little. "More excitement."

"Well," he says, slowly. The door's closed. When did the door close? She doesn't remember that happening. "I could take a few hours' break. Any clients will just have to wait until Gertie arrives."

She wrinkles her nose at him, fully aware that some of them don't wait that long, and that the headlines in the morning will just send more clients his way. "Then we should both get our rest," she says, and glances down at her legs.

"We should," he agrees. Then he waits a beat before asking, "Is something wrong with your legs, Della?"

She can't look up, but she shakes her head. "No."

"They appear to be very fine legs."

She sighs. Her heart is beating much, much too hard. "And these garters are incredibly stubborn," she mutters. "I suppose I'll just have to take the whole thing off and deal with it in the morning."

"I see," Perry says gravely, reaching for her hand, "that I shall have to escort you all the way to your _bed_ , Miss Street, and not merely your door."

"Perry," she moans in protest, but she follows along when he leads her to her bedroom door. She flushes scarlet when he reaches for the zipper of her gown, but she doesn't protest again. Her dress slides to the floor, leaving her in her slip and stockings and girdle and garter belt, and she bends to pick up the dress, draping it over her dresser. It takes her a few attempts, and she chuckles at herself when she nearly falls off balance.

Then he positions her on the bed, turning on the lamp at her bedside to see what he's doing as he sets to work on her garters, and she just gazes at him. He is very handsome, this man she's been in love with for so, so very long. Their cocktails with dinner have softened what are sometimes the granite lines of his face, and he's a large man, at least six inches taller than she, broad-shouldered, broad-chested.

And entirely unsuitable for her. And entirely off-limits.

And rolling her stockings down her smooth, slender legs.

She wiggles her toes once they're bare, her feet still aching a little from spending all day in heels, reaching beneath her slip to unfasten her belt before she remembers again that she shouldn't. But Perry's standing. "And where do you keep nightgowns, Miss Street?"

Wordlessly she points at her armoire, using his momentary preoccupation to wriggle out of her girdle and toss it into the dark corner. She feels like she can finally breathe again, but she's also on the verge of nausea. She has to sleep before she's sick, or there will be no hope for her.

And Perry returns to her, with a black peignoir in his hands.

Della glances from the gown into Perry's eyes, her eyebrows inching up a little. She has many more modest nightgowns than that one.

But then, she didn't exactly direct him to pick one of those, either.

When she shifts, her stomach roils, and she frowns deeply, pushing herself to unsteady feet. "I'll... be right back," she barely excuses herself, grabbing the gown as she moves past him, and once she's alone in the bathroom, she kneels in front of the commode, losing the contents of her stomach in the least graceful way possible.

Afterwards, she sits back, tugging the now sweat-dampened slip over her head, sighing as she unfastens and shrugs her bra off. She's in thin satin panties and shivering from the chill in the cold tile under her, but she feels better, especially once she removes her glowing makeup, her lips pale pink once the lipstick comes off, and splashes cool water on her face, wetting a washcloth to drape over the back of her neck. The mouthwash burns and she winces, but at least it takes the sour taste out of her mouth. She glances at the peignoir, then shrugs and slips it on, just in case Perry's still out there. She doesn't want to walk out of the bathroom mostly naked like a brazen streetwalker. Not that the peignoir is particularly modest.

And it's not like Perry will even be in her apartment now. His concern can't extend to her embarrassing condition. He'll just greet her in the office in the morning like none of this ever happened. Like his hand wasn't on her bare leg.

But, when she walks out of the bathroom, he's just placing a glass of iced water at her bedside. "Feeling better?"

Della nods, a blush rising in her cheeks. "Thank you," she says quietly, her voice soft and pitched low, and when she realizes how she must sound, how she must _look_ right now, she blushes a little more warmly.

But then, he picked out the gown for her.

He _picked out_ the gown for her.

She clears her throat, trying again. "It's late," she murmurs. "You must want to get home."

"I do," he replies, and then he toes his shoes off. "But I can't leave you in such a state, Miss Street."

\--

The problem is that Perry can logic rings around her even when he's drunk.

But the bigger problem is that once she realizes what he wants, she doesn't try so hard to dissuade him.

And that is how, when she wakes up a few hours later, still in the dead of night, she's faintly mortified to find that, first, her boss is in her bed with her; second, he is _en déshabillé,_ as her aunt would say, and so is she; and third, she is cuddled up to him like a girl with her boy friend.

She can't even count or comprehend the number of things she's doing wrong.

Blindly she pushes herself up, easing away from him, and finds the glass of water by touch. The glass is still damp with condensation, though the liquid within is tepid, but she forces a few swallows down anyway, then settles back against her pillow.

He's asleep. In bed with her.

Why didn't he just leave when she fell asleep?

_Because he didn't wish to._

Very, very gently Della reaches up and pushes a lock of thick, dark hair from his forehead, nestling her other arm under her pillow. In the morning this will be very awkward or he will be gone, and either way, when she arrives at the office in a smart two-piece and sensible heels, this will not have happened.

So she should enjoy this while it isn't happening.

She begins to pull her hand back, and suddenly Perry's hand is wrapped around her forearm. He brings her wrist to his lips and kisses the pulse point there, the place she sprays perfume every morning, then an inch lower, then an inch lower.

Then his eyes open.

Many, many things happen next, and she can't stop any of them. He kisses the inside of her elbow, her shoulder, the strap of her gown, the lowest point of her neckline, and she shivers. He nuzzles his way up her neck, and she's panting when he plants a soft kiss against the point of her jaw.

Her heart is thundering in her, and their gazes meet just before their mouths do.

And they were drunk before, but it's almost all gone now. He knows exactly what he's doing.

And she doesn't want him to stop.

He pins her down, his large palm covering her breast, finding her nipple through the thin fabric, and she buries her fingers in his thick hair. He fondles her until she draws her knee up, and her gown pools at her waist, and he pushes the peignoir up.

She knows that a good girl would shove his hand away, would protest. But she's been in love with him too long to waste this chance, to risk that he might not try again.

He tugs her gown off and then rolls over with her, so she's sprawled over him, dressed only in her satin panties. She flushes hot when the join of her thighs comes in contact with his hips, through his shorts, but she tips her head and fuses her mouth to his again, moaning quietly when he slips his tongue into her mouth. His large, warm palms stroke up her bare back and she pushes her knees forward, straddling him.

Perry. _Perry._

What is she doing...

His fingertips drift up the line of her spine and she shudders, feeling him stir under her. He's aroused and no, no, she can't, they can't, this isn't just waking up in bed together, this is...

He makes a soft sound, kissing her again before he moves off the bed, finding his pants on her dresser and digging in the pocket, and she sprawls on her back, shivering a little in the chill of her bedroom.

But he didn't change his mind. He returns to her, reaching for her panties, but he pauses, looking into her eyes.

He doesn't say it. Neither of them have said anything, and it's as though he's afraid to break the spell.

In answer she cups her palm over his, helping him push her panties down, and reaches for the hem of his undershirt once she's naked.

He isn't her first lover, but he's one of the only men she's cared about this much, and being able to wrap her fingers around his manhood and pump him in her fist, to feel him shiver, makes her grin. In retaliation he cups the join of her thighs, his palm pressed to the dark curls between, and he presses the heel of his hand against her, teasing the slit of her sex until she's grinding against him.

He doesn't ask before he moves away from her to put the condom on, and her head is pounding, all of her tingling in anticipation before he returns to her. She bends her knees and opens her legs to him, sighing as he lowers his hips to the cradle of her open thighs, gently teasing her again. He kisses her and she keeps one hand buried in his hair as the other strokes up and down his broad, firm back.

And then he's inside her.

Her body trembles with his every thrust, her body wrapped around his as he joins to her, as he moves with her. He's large, and when he pushes hilt-deep inside her she cries out, shuddering as he angles his hips.

But he makes love to her, looking down at her, responding to the hitches in her breathing, the way she claws at him, her cries of pleasure. He works inside her and she shudders when he breathes against her earlobe, when he roughly grasps one of her breasts, brushing his thumb back and forth against her nipple.

"Oh, _oh!_ Oh, _Perry_!" she cries out as the tension, glorious and terrible, builds inside her, tightening her belly, tightening her sex as she enfolds him. He's panting as he nearly ruts against her, her nails digging into his back, her lips brushing against his chest.

"Della," he breathes, and he trembles against her, groaning when she locks her legs around his waist, drawing him to her.

With one last tremble of his hips he collapses to her and she pants hard, trying to catch her breath, her limbs still wrapped around him. She has wanted this for so long.

And she can barely believe that it's true. That he stayed instead of just tucking her into bed; that he's just made love to her...

His lips brush her forehead before he slowly pulls back, leaving her sprawled on the bed again, and goes to her bathroom. She reaches for the box of tissues on her bedside table and wipes her thighs from habit, finding the peignoir again. Her sex is still hypersensitive and slick, and she tugs her panties back on, pulling the covers over her as she shivers.

When he returns to her, moving back under the covers, he immediately reaches for her, drawing her into his arms, and she murmurs happily at how warm he is.

"I know no jury would ever believe it," he says softly, "but I definitely had no intention of that happening when I offered to walk you to your door. Della."

She closes her eyes at the tenderness in his voice when he says her name. "That's a shame," she murmurs. "Because if you're not careful, _I_ will, from now on."

He dips his head down, nuzzling against the join of her neck and shoulder. "Really," he murmurs.

"Very much so, Mr. Mason," she breathes, just before his lips find hers again.


End file.
